“Inspector Rutledge?”
“Yes?”
“Inspector Cain has been looking for you and saw your motorcar in the hotel yard. There’s been an urgent telephone call from Northampton. I’m to tell you that Constable Hensley is dying, and you’re to come at once.”
Mrs. Channing insisted on driving with him. “If you must stop in Dudlington before you go on to Northampton, you may be too late. There’s nothing I can do, but I don’t mind waiting until you know whether this is true or not.”
“Why shouldn’t it be true?” he asked, stepping into the motorcar beside her.
“Telephone messages can be contrived. As I remember, there are some very lonely stretches just south of Dudlington, open pasture rather than houses. A perfect place for an ambush.”
If his nemesis could hide in the open land of Beachy Head, he could hide along the roadside as he did in Hertford, and wait for the motorcar to come by.
“No. That puts you at risk. If the shot kills me, I’ll lose control of the wheel. You could die in the crash.”
“I could have died nursing those poor soldiers with the Spanish influenza too. Or on the crossing between Dover and Calais. I could have been one of the nurses who went down with the Britannic. I’m not afraid. And someone else in the car with you might deter him. Who knows?”
She reached into the rear seat to lift up the woolen rug that he kept there, and Rutledge stopped breathing for a heartbeat as she seemed to have trouble retrieving it. Almost as if Hamish had held on to it, he thought. But she said nothing as she finally brought it between their seats and proceeded to spread it over her knees.
That, as he knew too well by now, was no proof that she hadn’t sensed a presence there, just that she had chosen not to speak of it. For the moment.
***
They drove fast, trying to cover the miles as quickly as they could, but Rutledge kept his eye to the verges of the road, where Death could also be lurking.
Hamish, in the rear seat, was trying to tell him something, but Rutledge had no time to pay heed to the words that seemed to echo in his ear.
When they at last reached the busy outskirts of Northampton, where industry seemed to thrive, Rutledge felt himself relax for the first time. His neck and shoulders were stiff from tension. It eased as they made their way to the hospital.
“How is your ankle?” Mrs. Channing asked, when he got down and limped around to her side of the motorcar to open her door.
“Much better. Driving aggravates it a little. By the time I’ve walked a hundred paces, it will be all right.”
And it was.
They found Matron in her office, and he asked to see Constable Hensley.
“There was a message to come at once,” he said, dread-ing to hear the news that her patient had already died.
Matron nodded gravely. “His fever has risen— alarmingly last night, but it fell back a little this morning.
Is this a relative?” She indicated Mrs. Channing.
“No,” she said, holding out her hand. “My name is Meredith Channing. I was a nurse in the war. I was hoping you might let me sit somewhere quietly, while Mr. Rutledge speaks to the constable.”
Matron, responding to that warm, compelling voice, said, “Yes, you’ll find a small room down the passage and to your left, just across from the surgical theater. It’s for the staff, and there’s usually a fresh pot of tea on the hot plate. You’ll find it quiet and comfortable, I’m sure.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Channing turned and walked away, leaving Rutledge to follow Matron to the room where the doctors had isolated Hensley.
Hamish was saying, “There’s no call to harass him. If he didna’ kill the girl.”
Rutledge answered silently, We’ll see.
Indeed, the constable looked ill, his face flushed, his hands restless outside the sheet that covered him. His eyes were too bright, and as they focused on Rutledge, he said,
“God, I’m afraid of dying.”
Rutledge sat down by the bed, and said, “I don’t know that you are dying.”
Hensley shook his head from side to side in denial. “I can feel it, the fever, eating away at me. They’ve cleaned the wound twice, and it hasn’t helped. They’re afraid the infection’s spread into my blood.” He took a deep breath, trying to quell his distress. “I hope you’ve brought good news.”
“Of a kind. While you’ve been away,” Rutledge said,
“we’ve had several new developments in Dudlington.
We’ve found a body in Frith’s Wood.”
“I knew it!” the sick man said, rousing himself. “I knew that Letteridge bitch had killed her. Where in the wood did you find Emma? I’d searched until I was crazy with dread of that place, but I couldn’t stay away.”
It was the first time he’d admitted to going to the wood.
Rutledge tried to describe where he had made his discovery.
Hensley said, “I’d looked there, more than once. But not as deep as you did.”
“You didn’t carry a pitchfork.”
Hensley flinched. “Poor Emma. She ought not to have died like that!”
“Like what?”
“Alone in that blasted wood. She was afraid of it, you know. Her grandmother had told her tales about seeing lights there, in the winter.”
He shivered and reached out to pull up the bedclothes. “I freeze and I burn. They’ve put a hot water bottle at my feet now. I was worried last night when they started going cold.
It’s the first sign of dying.”
Rutledge said, “We found a body in the wood, but I didn’t say that it was Emma’s.”
Hensley broke off plucking at the bedclothes, to stare at him. “Not Emma’s? But I thought—” His eyes glittered in the light of the table lamp. He said wretchedly, “It’s this fever, nothing makes sense.”
“It was a man’s body. I have several very good reasons to think it might be Harry Ellison’s.”
“Emma’s grandfather? He’s buried in London.”
“I don’t think he is. I’ll have the Yard take a look tomorrow, but I don’t expect them to find a grave.”
“Grace Letteridge couldn’t have killed him. She wasn’t born when he died.”
“I think Mary Ellison may have done it and buried him in the wood, then made up the story about the runaway horse in London.”
“God help us!” He lay back in the bed with the back of his hand across his eyes.
Matron put her head in the door. “Please don’t tire the patient, Inspector. He needs all his strength.”
“Yes, thank you, Matron.” When the door closed, Rutledge said, “Is Frank Keating actually a man by the name of Sandridge?”
Hensley took away his hand and looked at Rutledge.
“On my word, he’s not.”
But if Hensley had been a cohort of Sandridge’s, he wasn’t likely to admit the connection.
“What happened in London, Hensley? Did you look the other way when Barstow’s place of business was set afire?”
Hensley moved restlessly. “You lied to me, you think I’m dying, that I ought to confess. What if it’s a ruse, and I pull through this? I didn’t kill Emma Mason, that much I’ll tell you. But I won’t speak of London.” He turned his head aside. “You weren’t there. And some people have a long memory. They’d know who talked.”
He wouldn’t change his mind, and finally Rutledge stood up to go.
He had just put his hand on the latch to open the door when Hensley said, “Here, you never told me. What’s become of Emma, then?”
“We haven’t found her yet. But I hope to, very soon.”
Rutledge put in a call to the Yard to have someone look in Highgate cemetery for Harry Ellison’s grave site.
“I’m told there’s a great stone lion nearby, called Nero.”
“I know the tomb you mean, sir,” the constable on the other end answered him. “It shouldn’t be hard to find out if there’s an Ellison in the vicinity.” He spelled the name again, to make sure he had it right. “Where can I ring you back, sir?”